Subjugation
by WonWon101
Summary: It's not just Melanie and her crew that have a story to tell about what happened when the aliens came. Others have stories to tell that need to be heard. And this is just one of them. Doesn't involve any of the characters in the book.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer - I do not own the Host. Only my OC and her plot.**

**The Host**

**Subjugation**

They come at dusk. Just as the tip of the sun touches the horizon, when the streets are cold and the sky is overcast with relenting black clouds. The streetlights are kept permanently off, the lights of houses terminated beforehand by fearful residents. There is nobody on the streets. No late night joggers, dog-walkers, workers or homeless drunks. They all know what the risks are.

You can see the headlights of their cars from miles away, although you can never tell how many there are until they're close. Usually twenty or thirty show up. They're searching for survivors of the initial waves of colonisation. They say humans are destructive, unpredictable, harmful to the environment. That love, hate, desire, sadness, anger and other such feelings are what inherently make the human race a weak, tumultuous species.

They've been coming here for two weeks now, ever since they discovered our little town in Luisianna. During the first week they found my neighbours. Monday this week they found two others. I saw them taken away in their silver vans, arms flailing, legs kicking out, shoes digging into the earth; any form of restraint almost never works. Even my neighbour, Stephanie, who I remembered was a black belt in karate was taken, however not before she was able to get a couple of them to bleed. But afterwards they healed their wounds in an instant using their high-tech medicine.

This time its a small group, maybe ten or so, who turn up. When they get out of their dark-windowed cars they immediately get into formation, their movements uncannily robotic and faces grim with resoluteness. They carry with them the aura of beings with an insatiable impulse to hunt. With a smaller, widely sparsed group however, it will be difficult for them to flush us out. Besides, they won't get me without a fight.

I've taken refuge in the family bunker, huddled with my sister's old teddy bear, whose company provides me the only comfort. That, and the loaded shotgun lain beside me on the wooden floor that once belonged to my father. He showed me how to operate it once, actually three days before he was taken, and it seemed simple enough. But now, bereft of his reassuring presence, I'd feel more secure without the gun in my possession. Weapons would only attract more of them anyway, lest we forget their main purpose is to revoke humans of any dangerous sustenance, including humans themselves.

Inside the bunker it's dark and dank. A musty smell permeates throughout it, emerging and re-emerging in transient swells. Strange shadows jump into life before my eyes, dancing in the flaring moonlight like wild animals. I have the sense to remain absolutely still, however the fear inside me grows to the point my body starts physically trembling. I apprehend the prospect of being captured and taken back to their labs and turned into one of their own. To have a parasite inserted into my brain and take control, read my thoughts, abate my feelings, analyse my memories and use them against me.

Yes, that's what they are.

Parasites.

From another world. Rational, heartless, obdurate parasites called Souls. I hardly know anything else about them, other than they arrived wanting to preclude the destruction of Planet Earth by populating it, and won't rest until every last pocket of resistance, ie., Human Beings, are extinguished. They want a perfect world, and they see us as an obstacle to that vision.

Booted footsteps clunk nearby, reaching closer towards the bunker entrance. I hold my breath, my hand groping in the darkness for the metal barrel of the shotgun. The footsteps come to rest at the foot of the bunker, and through the miniscule gaps between the wood of the entrance, a face materialises against the black-blue starry sky. At a first glance you'd instantly recognise it to be human; at a second however, would make you think entirely otherwise. The truth is in the eyes. A formidable, tell-tale ring encompasses the pupil, indicating the take-over of the host's body. Never could the pun "The eyes are windows to the 'Soul'" be more obvious, if not emphasised. There's something horrifically mechanical about it, the way they glow in a ghostly phospherous blue and flicker open and shut like the shutter of a disjointed camera. It is a trait that screams apathy in my mind. The host is a young woman, and I vaguely recognise her being a resident in our little town, a fact which makes her of value to the group of Souls due to her host's familiarity with the place. A name comes to mind. Susan. Yes, Susan, the young French woman who'd escaped capture along with her husband, who too, had suffered the same fate only days before. Ever since they'd discovered our little hidden society, they haven't missed a day of searching. I can't help but wonder as to what lengths these creatures will go to restore entire peace, yet alone be satisfied.

Silence encloses me in a shell devoid of receptivity, leaving me only to the feeling of my heart pounding in my ears. I stare at the face of the enemy, unblinking. My hand finds the cold hard metal of the shotgun, and clenches it in a firm, sweaty grasp. An odd sensation pulsates through my body; not one of fear, nor sadness. The feeling churns up inside me, bringing itself into recognition, and I realise that I'm angry. Vengeful for the deaths of my family members. My mother and sister were killed by scavengous theives who'd raided our old house in Ohio two years ago. Yes, and my father included, as he is no longer more the man I once loved and aspired too, he might as well be dead also. The Souls took him away from me. I have nothing but hatred for them.

I try really hard not to accept that sometimes I can hear my father, calling my name in the darkness, searching for me. His soft, calming voice has transformed into the cold haunting howl of a ghoul, scrutinising the earth for me. The man who'd once comforted me as a child against dancing skeletons and monsters under the bed has been unmade, turned into a weapon against me in an attempt to drive me insane and reveal myself. And honestly sometimes, I can feel myself going crazy.

And the worst thing is, I can hear his voice tonight.

"Jennifer? Jenny baby, come on out and meet your daddy!"

His voice trails softer than the midnight breeze flowing into town.

But the instant I regard his voice in kindness, I know I'll be giving up my body forever. Likening his voice to that of a perverted drunk seems amusing and terrifying enough to keep myself emotionally and mentally intact.

"Jennifer! Jenny!"

He sounds closer. Thankfully he doesn't know my old hiding spot. Nobody does. Either that, or he does know and he's giving me a chance to give myself up. But why would he do that? He's a Soul now. The young woman above me moves somewhere off to the left.

"Jenny honey, I know you think we're monsters. But you don't understand. This is the future. Join us," the voice of my father pleas, belonging to another body.

He's at the house. The bunker runs half the length of the house; there are no entrances or exits apart from the main doors under which I am stationed, kept under lock and key for safe measure. I have a vast collection of lanterns stored in the bunker's depths, but none would flare tonight - maybe even forevermore. They won't stop. They know I'm here. What used to be my father knows I'm here. Most of the remaining people in this town know I'm here.

I hear the doorknob of the front door above twist, exhaling a heavy metallic sigh as it ground against accretion. But he doesn't venture in. I hark intensly for the distinctive creak of foot against wooden floorboard, but there is none. Not even the click of the locked doorhandle. Is he afraid? Does he - it - expect me to be at the door, awaiting his arrival with a shotgun in hand?

"Jennifer!" He calls.

Though sooner or later, I must accept the frightful truth that they will discover the bunker eventually. It could be weeks from now, it could be days; even hours, but they will find me. As long as I remain here, I'll be as obscure as a sitting duck.

But I have nowhere else to go.

I know of no other settlements for survivors. The adjacent woods of the East offer hostility. Out West is a barren wasteland of destroyed townships from the everlasting war. South is the coast, facing the Mexican Gulf frontier, and I don't know how to swim, let alone maneuver a ship. To the North is one of the hundreds of Soul colonies positioned around America. There is talk of building a tunnel underground for use as an escape route, to make use of the old subways. But there is no collaboration. The risk is too great. Cellphone and radio towers have been tapped, the roads are almost always patrolled, the internet and network providers have been terminated. All airstrips and docks have been seized. The Souls have us exactly where they want us. Deprived, desperate for a better life. A life without strife or war, deception or greed. A life they promise lies with them. As fortold by many scientists before, us surviving humans have been sent back to the Stone Age, only in the wake of something exhibiting a higher intelligence, not global warming, a flu epidemic, chemical warfare or technological disaster. No, this was a fate far worse.

I can hear footsteps crunching outside fading into the distance, indicating their leave. I remain sedentary. My hand is frozen still on the shotgun. In my other, my sister's stuffed teddy bear is choking in a death grip. Even the plush fur isn't enough to dispel my overcoming fear. The shaking worsens, my voice comes hoarse and croaky, mumbling words of jibberish in unending sentences. They will find me. They will find me, and kill me. Some part of me likes the idea of my demise. How wonderfully bliss death will be compared to the torture of my unmaking. Since the death of my father, a voice has awakened inside of me, clinging and feeding from my fear, ingniting feverish dreams in my sleep. A voice that makes the false reality and reality untrue; a voice that furrows, embedding itself into my conscience, attacking the side of me that forgives and forgets. Ergo these murderous thoughts.

Somehow I manage to drift into sleep.

For the thirteenth consecutive night, evil pervades my dreams. Clouds of ubiquitous darkness swirl, suffocating me in the hot, colignous buried earth and simultaneously leaving me exposed in the coldness of empty space. Each good memory I try to grasp a hold of crumbles before my eyes, transforming into horrifying fabrications of fear and hatred. Rather than soar, I am dragged helplessly through a pastime of happiness-turned-terror, forced to watch my own unmaking. Images of my father recur, emerging first as the man I loved and trusted then converting into a haunting demonic villian who heckles me in taunting whispers, trading fiery spit in his fits of laughter that burns my ears.

I wake to high-pitched screaming. It emanates in an undying stream, at a painful, wavering pitch from somewhere in the bunker. It's only until I realise I can't breathe that I discover I am the source of the noise. A warm liquid trickles from my nose. I smear it with my finger - it comes away red. Blood. Morning light peeks through the wooden slits of the entrance, throwing long shadows of objects in the room. How long was I screaming for? How long was enough to make me bleed?

I don't know.

I stand up, struggling to find my balance, and grasp the cabinet edge for stability. Dizzyness persists, and I try to relax my neck to expluse the strain. I hang my head for several seconds, feeling my senses gradually return to regularity. Nobody appears to have discovered me, despite my screeching. With care, I push open the entrance, enough for my good left eye to see through because of the minute slack in the chain. From what I can see, the area is clear. No Souls, no people. Grabbing the keys from deep within my blue Levi's jeans pocket, I unlock the the door and rise ceremoniously into the light. I prepare myself to bolt back inside anytime, but no danger reveals itself. The street is empty and quiet. Almost too quiet. Even the familiar birdsong chorus is absent, their assigned outpost rooves, drainpipes and powerpoles unemployed by any living thing.

An abnormal quietness has consumed the streets where the children play football and shout, where the watchful parents congregate around outdoor tables with mugs of coffee and/or cigarettes. Sometimes they throw public barbeques - especially on cloudless nights, where the stars are brightest, and view from the lookout posts is optimum. I almost never attend. Without my father's protective arm, I mostly feel apprehensive around people and abide my time in solitude, however there are times when isolation doesn't help. After a while, it feels like a sickness, eating away at the persona within. Eventually it regresses to melancholy and despondency, where even in the welcome warmth of the sun it can feel like the sensation of skin burning in the fiery depths of hell.

I move towards one of the houses which I'm confident holds a family of five survivors. Inside, there is a complete lack of evidence suggesting human activity. No footprints in the fine dust. No light from upstairs or down. No food, perfume or any distintive scent, other than the malodorous stench of wood that has begun to rot. I check every nook and cranny, every loose floorboard, calling the names of the family. Nothing. They must think I'm a Soul.

"I'm not one of them!" I call into the emptiness, listening to my voice reverberate against the walls.

Silence.

The next house I check is much the same. No sign of life. Nobody responds. Listening to my voice echo in the starkness.

I continue this way, the evidence becoming worse and worse, and soon the eventuality sinks in.

They'll be back, and they'll know where to look.


	2. Chapter 2

They would have been taken during the early morning hours, whilst I slept. That's the only explanation I have, other than they somehow escaped the town, possibly to join forces with more survivors. But why wouldn't they inform me?

Was it my blatant indifference? My refusal to participate in many of the communal gatherings? Was it something personal against my father? Or did they just forget?

I don't know who to blame.

Except for the fact that's not important right now. All I know is that I have to move.

Suddenly, a voice emerges. A voice that speaks the rational member of my conscience. A strong, exalted, wisened voice. My mother's voice.

Where are we going? It asks.

Anywhere but here, I reply.

But you don't have a plan. The others will be somewhere around here, probably just hiding from them. Think about it, Jen.

She does make a valid point, that what I'm doing is too drastic and irrational, but the majority of the evidence suggests staying here is no longer an option. If I want to stay human, that is.

I have to go!

Don't be stupid, you'll die!

I have no other choice, Paula.

Addressing my mother by her first name shuts her up, even though I determine the outcome of my decisions. Her voice will only encumber the need for escape.

I collect as many resources as I can from the bunker to fit into my old school backpack, and a weird feeling arises, a feeling of independance mixed with fear, that makes my insides bubble and heartpace quicken. After a minor argument with myself, I take the shotgun, fitting it into a makeshift holster that used to contain my Barbie drink bottle. Teddy finds a place in the pack, slightly squashed by the water bottles and food cans, but managing okay. He's there for my comfort, serving as a reminder of my little sister.

Already I can feel my eyes swelling with saline, and just as I'm about to leave, as I touch the side of the house to say a last astral goodbye, all the while my mother's sensible voice screaming in disagreement, tears begin to fall.

I head South, to the coast. Funnily enough, the sky above practically mimicks my emotions - an azure firmament ahead faced with an oncoming slaughter of dubious cloud from the East. A mild breeze leads me the way, guiding my hesitant feet across the sunbaked ground, towards the border of the Mexican Gulf. The trees communicate the voices in my head, the rustling of leaves fluctuating in waves of contention. I can feel the air grow heavy with my thoughts.

I follow the Louisiana Highway 49, keeping to the shade as much as possible. The Souls have an infinite amount of resources, which empowers their peace force with an impressive fleet of patrol vehicles and aircraft. They managed to clear the arterials of vehicles and repair bomb damage done to the road for their use. The cars run on some form of clean energy. I suppose they either discovered it here on Earth or brought samples of it over in their space capsules. As a result, excess carbon emission was brought to a standstill.

Time passes slowly, as it does anytime I'm alone. I concentrate on each step, feeling the shudder of impact resonate through my legs. Every thirty minutes I take a sip of water, however the profusion of sweat never recedes, and eventually I have to draw my unruly brown hair into a ponytail so as not to impair my vision. For hours I swat at gnats and misquitoes, my efforts useless in the growing midday heat. There is little shade provided on the highway; mostly swathes of dry earth extending in each and every direction. My mother's voice, which has now softened to a drawl, proclaims her disagreement with my decision, but has learned that nothing is stopping us from going on this journey. Instead, she pesters me about my plans when I reach the coast.

You shouldn't leave without a plan, Jenny.

I didn't have a choice.

Yes you did. Why didn't you listen to me? You yourself said that the docks were under surveillance.

I'm not looking for a ship at the docks, mum. There is bound to be at least one on the coastline.

But what if there isn't?

She has me there. What if there aren't any boats? And then there's the troublesome business of operating a boat. I don't know the first thing about nautical travel. I'll be fine on one with oars or an outboard motor, but short-distance travel won't be ideal. I need a navigation system, a means of durable travel; something that will get me as far away from Louisiana as possible. Away from the Souls. Away from my old life. Away from dad.

I cannot recall ever having gone hiking, especially on the open road, exposed to the torrid heat of the sun's hollow black eye. My feet are sore and my knee joints want to give out and my throat is crying for water, even though my half-hour break was but four minutes ago.

Its all I can do not to let out a sigh of defeat and sit at the roadside and feel helpless. Why was it that four hours ago, everything about my plan made sense, and now it makes no sense at all? Perhaps the reason was my being driven by instinct rather than cogitation. And now I am suffering because of it. Because of me. God, mother was right. She's always right. Why do I keep doing this to myself?

That's when the tears begin to brim, and anger flushes full. For a while I am able to turn in the other direction, back towards home, but the realisation that I'm too far out and the relentless needles in my legs send me crashing to the ground. I lie there for minutes on end, siping water and hating myself. Tears swell and roll down my sunbaked cheeks, and in fits of exasperation I bang my fists against the dirt and cry aloud, feeble at first but now in heated, heedless screaming.

"You're so stupid, you're stupid, you're stupid, stupid, stupid!" I shout repeatedly, until the words make no sense and my voice starts breaking.

Even mother's voice remains silent, leaving me lonely and dejected. I stare at the sky, watching as the clouds gradually overcast the brilliant blue in grey. The air smells of impending rain. Let it rain.

Let it hammer down upon my body as hard as stones, leave it bloody and broken and dying, awaiting the crows to flock, and my last wish for death shall be granted. I'm sick and tired of running. I want to be free. Free of Souls and scavengers and poisonous loneliness. As long as I'm in this cage of a planet, I'm merely a fish in a pool of alligators. A pool of ever-hungry alligators.

"Let me die," I choke out with a sob. "Let me go be with sister Lily and mummy Paula and daddy Henry."

Its not fair that they should die, and I be left to survive. Nothing good has come of it. It's just been one mishap after another, to the point where life has almost lost meaning to me. There is only so much I can do to convince myself to keep going. And this is it. I've had enough. Everybody who has ever cared about me has left, and in no good circumstance either. It's my turn.

I'm ready.

One of the stories my father used to tell me as a child was about a girl who looses herself in a dream, following

For the second time today, I wake to the glare of the sun, which upon its daily arc has moved but an inch across the sky. The sky itself has returned blue, absent of cloud - it hasn't rained, or maybe it has and I was asleep long enough to miss it, and for the heat to evaporate any trace of its existence. It seems as though I imagined the stormy front, perhaps a premeditated reflection of my mood, a matter of which I was not aware. Surrounding me is a vast mirage carpet, blurring everything in sight. Blinking and rubbing my eyes does nothing to improve my vision, but gradually my senses revert to normality, and I'm grounded where I first fell to the anhydrous earth. The voices are awake inside my head, wreathing and swirling around inharmoniously, trying to revive me from vertigo. Heeding their warnings, I sit up, feeling every bone in my body ache, the nerves screaming from compression. But my attention is fully drawn to the Soul standing in front of me.

His crystal eyes are trained on me, curious but anxious, as if expecting me to do something drastic. Behind him, a single patrol car idles by the roadside, the reflective silver doors ajar. My hand grasps the shotgun in my bag's side pouch. I rip it from its makeshift holster and direct it at my intruder's head. I can see fear flicker in his eyes, and he ceases his approach, about ten feet away.

"Back up," I say firmly.

He complies, and I stand on my two restless feet. Needles shoot through my legs, but I ignore the pain. The Soul seems tense, about as scared as I am; perhaps he is alone.

Good, a voice inside me says, now shoot him.

I hesitate.

What the hell are you waiting for? The voice urges. They took away your home and your father. All that you ever had. You hate them.

The Soul, trying to take advantage of my falter, slowly raises his hand, putting his wrist to his lips. Calling for back-up.

And then before I know it, I've pulled the trigger.

The shell rips through his head, leaving half of his skull and face intact. His right shoulder is gone, his arm hanging by a single tendon. A geyser of blood spurts from what remains of his neck, some of it splattering my face and clothing. The force knocks him backwards, sending his body flying. He lays dead still, a twisted, fragmented lump, fifteen feet away from me. It all happens so fast.

I throw up in disgust, ridding my body of vital water and food.

"Oh God," I splutter, turning away from the body.

I have the urge to sink to my knees as the picture world starts spinning uncontrollably and my body starts convulsing. It feels like my stomach has been forecfully knocked about my ribcage, hurling, twisting, compressing every anatomical construct of my being into spasm. My brain is much the same, rendered unable to process the reality before my eyes. Warm blood flows over my clothing. Blood on my face. Warm, thick, metallic-penny-blood in my mouth. And my voice utters its incomprehensible mantra, "Oh God, oh God, oh God."

Blood dribbling down the sides of my mouth.

Swallowing pennies.

This is it, I think. I've reached my tipping point into complete insanity. I am mentally disturbed. I am crazy. Psychotic. Maniacal. Insane. And to think all it took was a trip on the open road and a simple mechanical finger-flex over the trigger.

Keep moving, the choleric, impatient voice continues. Take his car.

I follow the voice with reluctance, shading my eyes from the bloody tangled mess in front of me. I don't know who to listen to anymore, and it feels nice to have someone else decide what to do for a change.

The road is a painting, a series of thick brushstrokes hardened charcoal-black in the midday heat, scattered with loose strands of bristle hairs and air-bubbles in the paint and the white paint blocks dividing the road in two. I get into the sparkling, shiny silver patrol car, my buttocks sliding into the hot leather seat. There is no key. Instead, there is a button to the side of the steering wheel, with the words 'ignition' printed on it in the colour of white-out correction fluid. I push it, and the engine roars into life. I remove my backpack, put it on the passenger seat and sink further into the leather, my foot eagerly hovering over the accelerator.

I was insane even before I shot the Soul's head off, even before I made for the coast. Before the nightmares and screaming. Maybe it all started after dad was taken.

Blood in my mouth. Swallowing pennies.

But where do I go?

Back home? Back to the little township in Louisianna? Back towards dad? How long will I make it before the Souls find me? Everyone else has vanished. Back home is a ghost town. I'll be alone. Poisonous loneliness.

No.

What about the coast? If I find a boat or a settlement there, then at least I have something to do. I am crazy. Unstable. Braincracked. I need something to keep my mind occupied. But what if I can't find a boat or other survivors? I'll be alone again.

No.

I've never shot someone before.

Swallowing pennies.

My eyes are crying blood. The Soul's blood. I frantically wipe at my eyes, fearing that the life of the Soul might somehow transfer to me. I wipe until my eyelids are bruised and my forearms and wrists are burning. Blood on my shirt. On my denim jeans. Blood in my mouth.

I close the car door and scream.

I open it for fresh air and close it and scream again.

Rinsing my mouth, I have to swallow the metallic blood with the water because I cannot afford to waste it. I study my face in the rear-view mirror. I am greeted by a wild, hideous mess somewhat resembling me. Blood on my face, blood on my eyelids, blood dried in my hair. I look in the glove compartment for any items of use. Nothing, aside from a peculiar grey cylindrical shaft. It sits comfortably in my palm, and I wonder if it's meant to be handheld. Is it a weapon? Some sort of communication device?

Drive, the voice says, Drive.

I place the cylinder back and shut the compartment.

Where do I go?

The voice answers for me; the coast.

And that's where I'll go.

Back before the world went to shit, I had a car license. The impatient growl of the engine is constantly calling for a higher gear, it's hot breath against my back. Gradually I begin to feel comfortable, in control of the vehicle. I think back to the days of humans, back to the days of summer, when my family and I would take a vacation driving around the coastline, camping out on beaches and sipping lemonade and singing to the songs on the radio. It was the only time mum and dad wouldn't fight, when they set aside their arguing for the sake of keeping our holiday as enjoyable as possible.

The sun, for brief, intermittent moments eclipses my vision of the road, or perhaps it is the dark swirling phantasm re-emerging to succumb me. I can't tell the difference between either. The road is wide and smooth, so I keep the accelerator to the floor, appeasing the lion behind me.

I think I understand why the Souls think us humans ruinous. How irrationality and emotion, while they compel us to acheive great things, can also destroy us. How a finger-flex over the trigger can change you in an instant.

Blood at the back of my throat.

Swallowing pennies.

Oh God.

Oh God.

Oh God.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

I stop the car. I click off the seatbelt, pocket the keys and stumble out the door. I fall on my hands and knees, kiss the salty asphalt. I've reached the coast. Seabirds squawking and waves lapping at the shore. Salty air, salty road. Salt, salt, salt.

I feel like running away from myself, to get rid of my craziness. My mind is jarred and incoherent, like a scratched DVD that keeps jumping scenes. A breeze carried from the ocean blasts dry sand into my face. Sand up my nose, sand in my hair, blood in my mouth. This feels like a dream.

Before me is a series of dilapidated abodes, watching the ocean from their sunken wooden frames. Sand crunches underfoot, splayed over the sidewalk in ugly grey mounds. I pick out a house faded blue, go inside and rest on the living room couch.

My head aches with crowding thoughts. I can't stop thinking about the Soul I killed. Maybe mum was right. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe staying at home would only make me grow insane with loneliness, just as it is here, and now. I pull my sister's teddy from my bag and hold him tight against me, finding some extra comfort resting my head on the plush cushions. The sound of the waves lapping lightly at the shore and the soft whistle of the wind lull me to sleep.

I wake intermittently, only to find myself in another dream. It happens so fast I haven't the time to process or question the authenticity of what I'm seeing. My father's embrace, which crushes me into a thousand pieces. The Soul's head explodes and from the stump of his neck erupts black, snake-like demonic spirits. On the desert road, I watch a flock of crows decend upon me, their jet black wings blocking my view of the sky. I feel one of them land heavily on my neck and tear at the flesh of my nose.

I am torn from oblivion, agasp. My breaths come unnaturally quick, as if the air isn't sufficient enough for my lungs to function properly. It takes my brain a few moments to register where I am. For a while I lie there, flat on the couch, figuring out what I should do. Teddy, who's been partially squeezed behind the sofa, looks at me blankly. Soughting through my thoughts is like wading through water weeds. Salty air blows in from under the door and broken windows. Gulls cry outside, waves lash at the shore. A storm is brewing. I want out of this nightmare.

Standing brings a wave of nausea, and I realise I'm slightly dehydrated. Before I drain the last of my bottled water, I go to the kitchen basin and check for water. Some would think what with the war, water systems should have been destroyed by the bombings. That was true for our town in Louisianna - we had to get our water from a nearby spring - and most other places, but not for all. From what I can remember, the coast has an independant system from the city, feeding from a resovior a few miles North. And thankfully, it works.

It takes a second for the water to come, and it runs lovely, cool, and clear, fizzing at the metal drain. I refill my bottle and wash my face and hair, ridding the collection of sweat, blood and dirt. By the time I'm finished, a pool of murky reddish brown has formed in the sink. It is washed away before I can really think about it. But I still feel the presence of the Soul I killed. I still feel the urge to curl up into a little helpless ball on the couch and consume the overwhelming guilt. To fight it, I search the house for any useful items. A bit of canned food in the overhead kitchen cupboard. Plastic bottles in the dishwasher. A green Ben-Ten watch on the counter top. Shotgun ammunition in a bedroom's desk drawer. Car keys in the pocket of the jacket on the dining table.

I check the garage, just in case.

Nothing.

I want to get this patrol car off my hands as soon as possible. Because they could find it, and find me. Wait. That reminds me of something.

In the passenger glove box is the grey cylindrical shaft. This time, I examine it closely. Turns out a button on the top - or the bottom - sends a fine spray of clear, odorless mist through the air. There are no labels or anything. It seems like some sort of liquid for skin application. At odds between taking or leaving it, I try it on a small cut on my arm I've just noticed. Miraculously, it disappears from my skin in an instant, bearing no trace it was ever there.

I take the time to check myself in the bathroom mirror, applying the spray to the various cuts and bruises I've earned over the past few weeks. I decide to make the most of the water and take my first proper bath in months. A sigh escapes my lips as I slide into the hot, soothing water. Flakes of dirt-encrusted skin wash away before my eyes, settling at the water's suface. When I'm finished and toweled off, I look nothing like what I'm used to, almost what to I looked like before the invasion. I stare at my reflection, tracing every inch of naked skin, which feels lighter and fresher than it ever has. My wild, crazy look has been transformed into the image of a seventeen year-old girl. I do my hair up the way I used to at school, letting the natural curls roll over my shoulder and end at my chest, frayed at the ends. I almost look normal. Crazy, but normal.

That's my girl.

My heart leaps into my throat at the sound of the voice. My skin flares, my muscles tighten.

It's dad's voice.

I stand, suddenly heavy on the bathroom floor, naked and vulnerable, and dad's soft, irritating voice prickles over my body like thousands of vile fleas.

Dad's voice doesn't speak again, only I can feel his presence, embedded in the back of my mind, injected into my skin, his hot breath in my ears, his image etched onto my eyes, his name at the back of my throat.

He is everywhere, and nowhere.

The idea scares me into motion, as I draw my spare non-bloodied clothes from my bag and slip them on. My skin itches slightly against the fabric - or perchance it's my imagination again. How does a crazy person tell, anyway?

I laugh aloud. It comes out strangled, wild, somewhat neurotic. It's scary, being in control one moment and complete disarray the next. At least I am preoccupied with tasks. The remainder of my day is full of them. Checking the house over again, scrubbing my blood-dried clothes, taking stock of food and water supplies, hanging clothes out to dry, wringing out wet socks. It's like the sensible part of me is setting up these little determinate tasks, as if leaving the breadcrumbs for the insane part to follow.

But it also feels like I'm avoiding what's more important, and that is what I'm going to do from here. Do I attempt to find other survivors? Should I look for a boat? Should I just stay here for a while, until I sort myself out? Do I go back home? Should I rather go someplace else? I'm stuck. I want to be everywhere else but here, yet I already feel myself becoming complacent. I can't help but notice that the life of a Soul seems a lot more enticing than the life of a human. They have everything. A seemingly limitless abundance in food, water, shelter, clothing, electricity, vehicles and weaponry. We have next to nothing. They could easily wait us out, until the human resistence dies out completely. Except they focus most of their efforts to colonise every last millimeter of the Earth, to replace every last human being. They are the ultimate predator. Seemingly untouchable.

Then I remember how easy it was to kill one. A simple finger-flex. A bullet fired. They bleed, as much as I do. They are limited to the boundaries of human capability, as much as I am. I feel dangerous just thinking about it. I have a weapon, after all.

I spend the remainder of the afternoon along the coastline, searching for any beached watercraft or signs of human life. From either end of the three mile-long sand crescent, there is nothing. Not a trace of human survivors. The docks are further east. But I keep looking. Eventually, I spot something off to my right, the undulating bulge of something floating in the water. It's a motorboat, caught in amongst some sharp rocks. To my luck, the outboard motor is still attached, coupled with spare oars. I kick off my shoes and socks, hike my jeans up to my knees and wade into the murky green. It's colder than I expected. Waves roll over my feet, sucking at my ankles, frothing madly at the shore. Fortunately, the boat is moored in the shallows. I haul it ashore, ignoring the burn in my wrists and forearms. When I was a kid, I wasn't keen on the water. The uncertainty of what lurked beneath and an addiction of horror films in my early teen years are both accountable for this fear. I pull it as far up the beach as I can, before looking for a boat trailer. Being a coastside town, it doesn't take very long to find one. Using the patrol car, I hoist the boat aboard the coupled trailer and drive it onto the road. Now what? Good question. I'll need to give it more thought.

The couch finds me again, and I almost instinctively reach for the TV remote before realising all electricity has been terminated from outside the zones. I suppose it's the homey kind of aura around the place that's causing these feelings. The setting sun blares through the open windows, throwing long shadows over the floor. Objects such as chairs and lampshades turn into animated creatures that dance in the flaring light. I am very aware of my craziness, but there is a genuine degree of admiration at the sight of these characters. It's like I'm watching my childhood stories and wonders come to life, outlined in the pleasant orange hue of the sun. Unlike last night, where the cold stare of the moon cast creatures of fear and intimidation, the sun emblazes them in a comforting and protective light. They sing and dance to songs from the dead world, their rhythms and lyrics as fresh as they were when I first heard them. I find myself singing along with them. That's one thing the Souls don't have. Music. Or art. Or anything expressive, for that matter. They wouldn't appreciate it, let alone understand it. It must seem beneath them - an imperfection, a hamartia in the human race.

Maybe that's true. But I won't believe it.

We are burdened entering this world, attaining the knowledge that everything on earth eventually dies. We grow up believing that we a cared for by a higher power, that our lives are significant, that the world dies with us. But the truth is, we aren't cared for. We aren't in control. The world doesn't care that you die. It lives and breathes on a much vaster scale than we could ever imagine, and we don't even have the humility to try. I knew well before the colonisation that there would come a time when humans no longer existed, would no longer be remembered, and everything is ultimately for nothing. I'd never have believed it, but I am witnessing oblivion. Right here. Right now. This is the end of the human race. I am at odds between a breakdown and accepting this as fact. It was bound to happen sooner or later, but I'd have much rather left the world while humans were still abundant.

And the time will come when the Souls meet the same fate. Regardless of their efforts, the planet will not sustain them forever. It may come thousands, even millions of years from now, but it will.

They may be our successors, but they are not our superiors.

I am bereft of a sense of direction. If I want to leave by boat or car, I have a certain limited window. But that also means a life of running and hiding.

The boat is mended by the week's end. I've managed to plug the miniscule holes in the hull with bits of bubber and waterproof tape - both of which I'd found in the garage. The outboard motor is fixed somewhat, drilled into the aft deck with the work of an unsteady hand. It sits aloft the trailer, awaiting use. Sometime soon I'll get the feeling to move. I'll make a decision. But the days wear on to dusk. The nights are long and fervid. I'm surprised they haven't found me yet. They haven't been looking. Or are they waited somewhere in the shadows, for the perfect opportunity to strike? I won't ever know for sure.

Sleep becomes even more difficult from my craziness. The voices in my head become less vivid as this insane persona of mine embedds itself further in. There are times I want to end it. My mind wanders thirstily at the thought of flipping that shotgun around and blowing my brains out. I could be with my little sister, mum and dad. I do wish I believed in angels. I do, I do, I do.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

I wake up. She's there, looming over me, her face inches from my own. I scream, my body sits bolt upright, clashing my forehead with hers. I roll off the couch on which I've been sleeping, and back away from my intruder. She is slightly taller than me, with a muscular figure and trim brown hair. Her green eyes are intense, confident but also with a detectable amount of fear. Instinctively I reach for the shotgun underneath the couch, however she whips out a handgun from her side and then we're trained on each other in a grand stalemate.

"You're not taking me anywhere," I say.

"Why would I take you anywhere, Soul? The sooner you're dead the better," She snarls, clicking the safety off on her gun.

"I'm not a Soul."

"Prove it."

"You first. You're my guest, after all," I remark.

"This is my town. You're my guest in here," she snaps.

There are two physical ways of identifying a Soul. One is the blue ring that encompasses the eyes, which is most common in hosts, however in some cases the ring is faded, even not apparent, which occur in a person with sight impairment. A sure way of telling is to check the side of the neck to check for the incision where the Soul was transferred, and massage the area to draw the Soul closer to the skin surface.

I pull my hair to one side to expose my neck, however keep the shotgun trained on the girl. She moves at lightening speed, knocking the gun easily from my grasp and tackling me to the ground. Before I can react she has me pinned with her full body weight against me. I struggle, but my any movement I make is useless.

Embarrassingly I cannot help but feel the warmth of her stomach and pressure of her breasts against my chest, which sends off little sparks inside my skin. All the sudden danger has brought on excitement. She continues to stare me directly in the face, her green eyes close enough for me to see my own reflection in them. But the emotion behind them draws me away from it, and also...have the pupils dilated? Am I crazy enough to have imagined it?

With her left hand she caresses the side of my neck, trying to draw the imaginary Soul from within. But surely if I was a host, wouldn't the Soul know if my body was under stress? The hell do I know.

Her touch though. It is soft, unlike the hardened look in her eyes, the masculine gait of her jaw. Oh God, could I be any crazier? I hadn't taken this much notice of human beings since dad left. Or even girls. There was the occaisional boy, but never a girl.

Her breath on my face and neck is not helping me regain my train of rational thought either. We lay like this for what seems like minutes, and neither of us speaks a word.

"You're not a Soul," She says finally, getting off me, but keeps her gun raised.

"No," I reply, slowly standing up.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I was looking for a place to hide," I answer.

"This is the wrong place to hide."

"Where else was I supposed to go?"

"There's a settlement North of here."

I explain, "I came from the North."

The girl frowns.

"Is it just you?"

I nod.

"I'm assuming it was a raid."

"Yes," I reply.

"I destroyed that car of yours. They can track them y'know."

A dual wave of dread and relief washes over me. Her voice is very matter-of-fact, and her language cagey.

"What's your name?"

"Jennifer," I answer. "What's yours?"

"Nic."

"How'd you find me?" I ask.

"I have tabs on the water system. I can tell the activity going on in every house in this town."

Holy shit.

"And because they were tracking your car into my town, I had to set off a few of my traps."

Traps? She goes out of her way to catch Souls? Other human survivors? Is she a hunter? Suddenly the slight comfort of being in the company of another normal human being dissipates. At least with Soul's their intentions are predictable. Humans are incalcuable. What if she has the whole town rigged? What if I had triggered one of her traps?

"Is it just you?"

"Yes."

"Actually, no. It's not just her," a new voice enters the house, answering to a young adult man, tall and lean, with dark curly hair.

"For fuck sake Stephan, I told you to wait back at camp. I can handle this myself."

The boy ignores her. "Don't you know it's rude not to introduce me to your new friends, Nicky?" His colgate-white smile widens further, crinkling the skin around his eyes.

"I don't have to introduce you to anybody, Stephan. And I told you never to call me by that name."

"Anyway, what would you have done if she was a Soul?"

"I would have killed her," Nic replies bluntly.

"Sure, sure you would have. That's why Dan sent me."

"Well Dan doesn't understand anything," Nic snaps, keeping her gunsights still trained on me.

"You want me to tell him you said that?" the boy Stephan warns.

Nic disregards him. There seems to be a sort of brother-sister relationship between them. The shotgun lies on the floor behind me - I could quickly turn, snatch it and take cover behind the arm of the couch - no, I realise that's impossible, as long as her gun is still pointed in my direction.

"What d'you plan to do with this one then, Rebecca Francis?"

Nic turns back to face him. "Rebecca who?"

If I back slowly enough for them not to notice...

While they continue to argue, I manage to shuffle backward a few centimeters at a time, nearing the shoulder strap of the shotgun. Then I am within arm's reach.

"...don't know what to do with her." Nic says.

As fast as I can, I pluck the gun off the ground and duck behind the couch. No gunshot.

Only a shout from the girl, "Shit! See what you did, you fuckwit?!"

I check the chamber. Loaded. The end of the shotgun is protruding from behind the arm of the couch. I need to move. The kitchen bench nearby is a suitable means of cover. I fire a round into the air, splintering the wood of the ceiling. While they are distracted by the sudden noise, I dive behind the kitchen counter.

"There are two of us. You're outnumbered, Jennifer," Nic says.

I know all too well that she is just as scared as I am, and that she is only trying to get me to surrender.

"Fuck you, bitch," I snarl, pumping another round into the ceiling.

"Christ!" The boy shouts, the bemusement clear in his voice. "How did you get her so pissed?"

"Shut up, Stephan."

An edgy silence ensues. Flakes of timber float gently to the ground. The smell of gunpowder fills the room.

"Listen," Nic says, her voice calmer, coming from somewhere behind the couch. "We don't want to hurt you."

Bullshit, a voice screams.

Give them a chance. Let them explain themselves, Mum says.

I'll hear them out first. Then I'll make a decision from there.

"What do you want?" I say.

"Tell you what. We have an ample supply of food, water, everything you need to survive. I could find you a place in our ranks, where you can work in exchange for a place to stay. And protection from the Souls and hunters."

"That's what the last camp promised," I say.

"Our camp is heavily fortified, reinforced by military-grade weaponry and defense systems. One of the strongest in the country - perhaps the strongest."

I am hesitant.

"I'll show you."

I slowly peer over the edge of the counter. Nic and Stephan are half-emerged from the end of the couch. Nic's gun is still clutched in her hand, but lowered at her hip. I notice she is the only one with a weapon. Stephan isn't carrying anything. What would he do if Nic was in trouble, if I happened to be a Soul or hunter and I'd overpowered her? He looks strong, but in a gun or knife fight, I'm fairly sure he wouldn't stand a chance.

"They don't accept foreign guns. Or any foreign items. They could be tagged."

"No," I answer.

She gives a heavy sigh.

"Fine, you can keep your weapon - until we reach the camp. I'm sure we can have them checked over."

I take her hand.

"Okay, deal."


End file.
